Tiny took off with a loaf of bread this afternoon.
That's right - he whipped a small, French, artisan loaf right out of its little paper packet and ran off, ducking and weaving through the Bakery section of the supermarket, taking small opportune bites. With feet like lightening, and eyes in the back of his head - in a manner astoundingly reminiscent of some of the greats of rugby - he side-stepped his dad before dodging and weaving daringly through stands of cookies and cakes, hotdog buns and tortillas, two chubby fists clamped tightly to his prize. His Dad (the ex-rugby player, now rusty), known in his day for his bursts of pure speed, was initially set back by the element of surprise - the impossibility that this was happening. Helpless shouts of, "Tiny! No! Tiny! Tiny!" began the chase and by the time it was all over, the artisan loaf was, well, ours - the newest (nibbled) addition to the shopping cart.
I helped by standing near the unaccosted artisan loaves and laughing and laughing and laughing. I'm just glad my pelvic floor held out. You know what I mean. We didn't need any more of a scene than we already had.